Читать книгу In the Beginning - Alan Sullivan - Страница 4

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They went in to dinner and, all the time, the ghost of that smile hovered on Caxton's lips.

"What are you doing this winter, Sylvester?" he asked, after a long pause.

"I thought of having a drive at the Malaysian flora, sir. I've been promised a year's leave. That is, if nothing else turns up," he added significantly.

Caxton nodded.

"Yes, very interesting I'm sure. Don't know anything about it myself. And you, Burden?"

"Thinking of shooting in Nepal. I've some friends there in the Civil Service, and they say there's no end of sport. At least, that's what I expect to do unless I stay in England."

Caxton had the very useful faculty of examining a thing very closely without appearing to look at it. He did this now with Burden. What he saw was a big, broad-chested, broad-shouldered man with reddish hair, reddish skin, and hard blue eyes that were rather protruding. His bones were big, his voice was big, and where his big hand rested on the white cloth one could see that the back of it was covered with tawny, yellow hair that was not worn away even where it ran along his wrist to his massive forearm. The hand itself was impressive, and to Caxton, who knew a good deal about bones, very significant, being a primitive sort of hand in its capacity to grip, punish, and strike. His chin was square, and he had a bristling, flaxen moustache. His shoulders ran well into his neck, which gave him an oddly pyramidal aspect, suggestive of great force and strength. But his forehead, which was low, receded a little. Not one man in a thousand would have seen all this in a passing glance, but Caxton did, and stowed it away carefully for further reference.

"I suppose you don't mind what you shoot, do you?"

Burden was a little puzzled, and did not quite like the question.

"Big game, sir; the bigger the better."

"Quite so. I understand. And you, Sylvester, are you particularly wedded to Malaysian flora?"

Sylvester paused before answering, and Caxton got an impression of a slight, graceful figure, rather loosely built, of dark hair and eyes, a sensitive mouth, a nose that hinted at imagination, and lips to which a smile came very easily. But he was not smiling to-night. The only reason for the Malaysian journey would be his refusal by Jean.

"Not particularly, but I'd like to get in some useful work. There's been nothing very much done there in my line since Steinholt."

Burden looked at him, wondering if the word "useful" was a dig at one's rival. To his mind there was more service, if it came to service, in killing a man-eater than in making drawings of leaves and ferns.

"Any other suggestion, sir?" added Sylvester. "My time is my own."

"Not just at the moment."

Caxton was thinking what a queer thing it was, this difference between people. But how fortunate! He could understand Jean's being both a little frightened and not a little attracted by Burden, and understand, too, how she felt about Sylvester; and in his mind moved the second great thought of that evening. The test! He had said that men tested themselves, little dreaming that within the hour there would come to him the chance to put these two to such a test as had never been undergone before by modern man. Burden looked as though he could stand it triumphantly, but was it quite fair to the other? That thought moved uncomfortably in his mind, and for the next half-hour he took a haphazard part in a conversation that dragged in spite of all Jean's efforts. His breath came fast when the butler took the cloth from the table and put the decanters in front of him.

"Thank you, Simmons, that will do."

Simmons went out, and Jean rose.

"I hope you three won't be too long," she said uncertainly.

Her father gave a dry chuckle.

"If you will sit here with us for a while, I can promise you won't be bored."

Her brows went up.

"Oh!" She included the other two in a questioning, uncomfortable glance, and sat down. "But, dad, don't you think we'd better have our bridge first, and you can talk afterwards?"

"There won't be any bridge to-night, unless I'm very far wrong. Is that pantry door shut tight?"

She inspected it, while the two younger men exchanged a glance that was mutually questioning and mutually defiant.

Caxton lit a cigar.

"I think," he began, very deliberately, "that on one matter we all understand each other. As far as concerns you two," here he inclined his head slightly toward his guests, "that matter is no doubt uppermost in your minds now. If I may make a guess, each of you has decided to press his case as strenuously as he can."

The younger men nodded simultaneously, and tried not to look at Jean, who was blushing violently.

"Dad," she broke in, "please don't say anything more!"

"My dear," he said, "I won't, on that subject; but it is, at any rate in my mind, curiously connected with what I am now going to tell you. And it is because you hold me to a promise I foolishly made that I have suggested you stay here. Will you smoke, Sylvester?"

Sylvester did not want to smoke, and his heart had begun to beat rather quickly. He glanced at Burden, who was leaning forward in his chair, eyes very bright. The atmosphere of the room became tense.

"No? Very well." Caxton felt in his pocket, and put a letter on the table in front of him. On the letter he put his wine-glass, with a curiously deliberate gesture.

"Before I say anything about what this contains—in fact, I propose to read it to you—I would like your word of honour—and this includes you, Jean—that in no circumstances whatever will you divulge a word of what I am going to say without my express permission. May this be finally and definitely understood?"

The young men nodded jerkily, and a whispered promise came from the end of the table. The room was very still, and there was in Caxton's face that which held the eyes of the others riveted on him.

"I received this letter this afternoon from a man whom I have known for years, and in whose hands I would put my reputation without question of any kind. We have worked together, and trust each other. Now he has put his reputation in my hands. Do either of you know his name? It's Withers."

Burden shook his head, but Sylvester nodded.

"Yes, I know about him—the F.R.S., isn't it?"

"The same."

"Did you say the letter came this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"That's very strange."

Caxton looked at him sharply.

"Why strange?"

"Because he's dead, sir!"

Caxton started violently.

"What's that?"

"Did you see the paper this morning?"

"No."

"It was in the 'Times'—a cable from, I think, Valparaiso. His body was found in a ravine near Quidico, which is south of the city; only a village, I take it."

"When?" Caxton was greatly agitated. "Get me the 'Times,' Jean, will you?"

She went out quickly, and Sylvester, sensing the drama of the moment but not dreaming what was involved, continued carefully:

"The actual date of the accident is not known, but it may have been some weeks ago. Some time was lost in identification, which was ultimately made by the British consul at Valparaiso, with whom Withers had been staying."

"He was alive twenty-five days ago," said Caxton gravely.

"Then it must have happened very soon after that. No details are——"

Jean came in with the paper. Her father scanned it closely, finding nothing more than he already knew, then leaned back, his brows wrinkled, his lips compressed. Presently he shook his head.

"This adds to my responsibility. The letter is now that of a dead man, and possibly the last he ever wrote. Should this be the case, I cannot but think that he was meant to write it before he died. It may be"—and here Caxton hesitated with a touch of awe—"it may be that the knowledge of what he has seen and disclosed to me has worked in his brain. I cannot tell, but leave you to your own conclusions. I shall have something to say when I have finished, so beg that all questions be deferred till later."

Dear Caxton,—I am here doing a little private work

for the Museum. Sometimes I wonder whether I am

here or not. You will appreciate this when you come to

a part of my letter which I will reach as quickly as

possible. But before you go any further I want to assure

you that I am perfectly fit, and never felt better in my

life. Now to get to the point.

I think our minds are very much alike, and that is

why it has always been such a pleasure to work with

you. We can both reason inductively as well as deductively,

so it is an invariable joy to me to have my own

methods of going about things confirmed by the practice

of one like yourself. I have a reason for saying this

here and now.

As you know, I have very little money; can't afford

to do much on my own, and that is why I was glad to

get the present job—of which I told you last time we

met. Well, I left B. Aires in a tramp steamer, and

voyaged south toward Del Fuego. The tramp had a

cargo of coal for Punta Arenas, and all went well till we

got south of the Valdes Peninsula, when the cargo shifted

in a gale and she lay, so to speak, on her elbow for the

rest of the way. She was a filthy old barge, and it was

in my mind to leave her if she ever did reach Magellan.

However!

Opposite Rawson, at the mouth of the Chubut, we

got into another blow, and, as luck would have it, some

of the cargo must have got back into place, because she

straightened up a good deal and did much better. But it

was a gale one remembers: those big, black, heavy seas

you get in the South Pacific, with all the weight of the

world behind them, and cold enough to freeze one's soul.

It was a bit south of that, and opposite Punta San

Sebastian, that the thing happened. We were lying to,

taking water almost solid over the bows, and there was

a lot of lightning. We were not far from shore, and,

as you will understand, not making more than a knot or

so an hour. I was at one end of the bridge, when I saw

two or three big seas coming, and made ready for them.

And then, Caxton, the most amazing moment of my life

arrived.

Carried just below the crest of the first sea, I saw

something, big, hairy, darkish brown, and unlike anything

I had ever seen before, though men like you and I

have dreamed of them. It was an animal, nearly as big

as the smaller Indian elephant, and in a sort of brain-storm

that it's quite impossible to conceive, I said to

myself, That's a giant ground sloth—a Megatherium.

Wait a minute, Caxton, and don't throw this letter

into the fire, and feel sorry for me. I am saying to you

what I dare not say to any other living man. The thing

sank into the trough of the sea, lifted directly ahead of

us, and the following crest flung it on our bow, where

it hung, half in, half out, for several seconds. Picture

this tramp weltering in a South Pacific gale with a nose-piece

like that. I could see the short neck, the immensely

heavy body, and the blunt, tremendous tail. The head

was inboard, fortunately, and I got a glimpse of the skull

formation, narrow, and the spout end to the lower jaw.

The thing lay there for several breath-taking seconds,

when another sea came and swept it on like a gigantic,

sodden sponge.

Caxton, do you understand now why I began this

letter as I did? That giant sloth had been alive within

a few days, or certainly a few weeks, of the day on which

I saw it. Where did it come from? The postulate is

that other of the great Pliocene, or, at any rate, Pleistocene,

mammals are alive, too. I can see the picture

begin to form in your brain as you read this, and appreciate

your struggle to persuade yourself that I'm not

mad. The skipper did not see it. He was in the chart-house

at the moment, and the man at the wheel, when

I reached him, only shook his head and stared at me with

wonder in his eyes. He had seen it, but I could not get

him to admit anything. He evidently thought he had

been dreaming.

Caxton paused at this point. His voice had become high and jerky, and he laboured under great excitement. Burden was sitting up, stiff and straight, his blue eyes bulging, and there came a tinkle as his fingers closed on the stem of his glass till it shivered. Sylvester had turned quite pale, and his lips were parted, while Jean, with a fluttering in her breast, glanced at all three in turn. Into her mind flashed what her father had said about men testing themselves. Was this the test? Then Caxton read on, his voice a little steadier.

So there it is. Take it or leave it, as you see fit.

You are one of the few men I know who can do what I

think ought to be done entirely off your own bat. It isn't

the sort of thing one can ask a scientific society to back.

You should receive this within a month of writing, as it

goes by B. Aires. I will leave a month after that again,

within which you can cable me care of the British consul

here. I'm staying with him. A decent chap, and kindness

itself, but, of course, he knows not a word of this.

Nor will anyone else within two months, and then only

failing receipt of a cable from you. Punta Arenas would

be the best place to meet.

As to the expedition, if you agree, it should be very

small, not more than two or three excepting ourselves.

To-morrow I go south to Quidico—here Caxton

faltered, and his tone became very grave—to do a bit

of work, but you can imagine what will be fermenting in

my brain all the time. I make no hypotheses, whatever.

You will do that for yourself, but I commend to your

thought that big triangle south of the Rio Negro, and

lying on both sides of the Chubut River.

Caxton, it's in your hands now. I have gone carefully

over what I have written so far several times, and

do not alter a word. This is no place for scientific arguments,

pro or con. We would only be treading ground

which has been stamped flat by others like ourselves. I

give you the fact. What are you going to do about it?

Yours, perfectly sane, but admittedly rather breathless.

W. L. Withers.

Caxton put down the last sheet with a sort of reverence.

"That," he said quietly, "is the letter I wanted you all to hear. Burden, your cigar is out. Try another. This Vuelta Abajo leaf does not stand relighting."

Burden shook his big head. He seemed to have changed rather curiously, and a dusky colour was in his face, while his eyes held a strange light. Caxton glanced at him out of the tail of an observant eye, and knew the symptoms. This chap was inflamed with the lust to kill. Sylvester, on the other hand, was even paler than before, his eyes half closed. He looked slight and almost delicate, and his brain was obviously ranging far afield. Jean, intensely conscious of them both, had a sudden idea that in a wilderness, peopled by undreamed-of beasts, she would feel safer with Burden. Then she became aware that her father was regarding her with an odd scrutiny. He lifted his brows in a half-question, and began to speak again.

"Thank you all for saying nothing, and I'm sure you see why. It would take too long to go any further into the scientific aspect of Withers' letter. But before going on I would like to ask you two men if your conclusions, assuming that you have any, are at all affected by the fact that Withers is dead. He probably died within a day or two of writing this."

Burden and Sylvester shook their heads.

"I thought they wouldn't be. My mind, of course, is made up. And now I want to ask Jean a question."

She looked him very straight in the face.

"What is it, father?"

"Are you willing to release me from that promise?"

"Not for anything you could offer. Do you expect me to miss the most wonderful trip in the world?"

He tilted his chin a little on one side and seemed rather pleased. Then, again, his face was grave.

"I must speak out now, because I shall not refer to this point any more. We may return and—there is always this to remember—we may not. Knowing all this, Jean, you still hold me to my word?"

"Yes, father."

Her voice was shaky but full of determination.

He nodded with a touch of finality.

"Well, that's settled. It might be different if I had someone to leave you with." Then, his eyes narrowing, he glanced over her shoulder. "I'm sure that door is ajar."

She went to it quickly and thought she heard the sound of a retreating step. But the pantry was empty.

"We'll go into the drawing-room," he said suspiciously, "it's safer there. Jean, perhaps you might leave us for a few moments."

She quite understood, and when the three were alone Caxton's manner changed a little. He was more the leader now—and the father.

"I assume you both realised my purpose in reading that letter?"

The two nodded.

"You both wish to come?"

Their method of answering was characteristic. Burden, with a great oath, swore that it was the biggest chance a man ever had, and he wouldn't dream of not coming. It didn't occur to him to acknowledge the invitation.

"Tiger," he went on. "Wasn't there a kind of tiger then—big chap with long, curved tusks?"

"The sabre-tooth. Yes, the most formidable of all the carnivora."

Burden's heavy jaw shut with a snap.

"That's what I want to get. Think of it! Hard to kill, eh?"

"We might discuss that at another time. And you, Sylvester?"

"Of course," said the younger man quietly. "It makes me very proud and—and very thankful to be included. Count on me for anything."

"Then, with my daughter, the party is complete. Gentlemen, I bring her quite deliberately, as I do not want her to miss what may be an astounding experience." He hesitated a moment, and sent the two a very candid look. "I want our party to remain complete and undisturbed by any internal trouble. It may be that, sometime, the lives of all of us will rest in the hands of one of us.

"Now, let me be very frank. I want it understood that, so far as my daughter is concerned, the matter between you two stands over till—till we return. There must be no rivalry, no criticism. If you think that this is an intrusion on your private affairs—well, I say flatly that in this trip we have no private affairs. Everything must be subordinated to the main object, everything done by all to help that." He gave a curiously twisted smile, and added: "It would relieve me a good deal if you were to shake hands on the bargain."

But one thing to do, and they did it. In Burden's grasp the palm of Sylvester was a slight, slim thing, and the other man could have crushed every bone. Watching him, Caxton recognised what a tower of strength Burden could prove in the wilderness. Undoubted courage, experience with big game, and endurance. These were his assets.

Against them, Sylvester had a fine, high resolution, a trained mind, and that peculiar fortitude which is made up of patience, vision, and a brain well balanced with the body it governs. They were both gentlemen, about the same age, and both of independent means. Either of them able to make a woman happy, thought Caxton, much intrigued with the situation. Never before had a doubting father been able to put rival suitors to so prodigious a test. He nodded contentedly and touched the bell.

"Simmons, will you tell Miss Jean that I would be glad to see her."

She came in at once, felt by the atmosphere of the room that the air had mysteriously cleared, and was infinitely relieved.

"I suppose I'd better not suggest bridge?"

Caxton laughed.

"I'm afraid not, or—well, it wouldn't be a bad idea. I'm going to work later on. You know," he put in with a grin, "there's such a disease as thinking too hard, and I have a touch of it."